


Deploratus

by ButterflyGhost



Series: due South Wizard!Verse [28]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, due South
Genre: Emotional Abuse, F/M, M/M, Mental Abuse, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 08:23:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/ButterflyGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser is falling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deploratus

He's lying in my bed, and he's not her. It hurts, but not the way I expected. Not the way she hurts.

She's been gone, what... a day? It feels longer. I don't even know what we fought about. I never do. The fights simply start, and no matter what I say, she just rages. Rages quietly. She doesn't shout. One mercy, my neighbours will never know. Her voice gets soft, and vicious, and I'm lost in a bewilderment. I can never think, can barely even move. I've never... never had anything like this happen before. Sex was never cruel.

The most horrible thing is that she enjoys it. When she fights me, she grins. I stand there, and she just gets angrier and angrier, and when she hits me, I take it. She wants me to hate her too, to hate her like she hates me. But I don't have it in me. I don't understand this. Some part of me knows that I shouldn't tolerate this abuse, but... 

It hurts. And when she's ignoring me, it hurts more. I would sooner she was hurting me than not seeing me at all. I think she knows that. I think that's why she does it. 

Oftentimes, the fighting turns to something else. She's pushing me backward, and maybe she's digging her nails into my arms, but she's kissing me too. Sucking my tongue out of my mouth, digging in her teeth. Pressing curses against my face, her hand sliding between my legs and... I shouldn't let her do this, but we end up naked anyway, and no matter what we do, we end up hurt. I find my hands clenching on her arms, or her buttocks tight, too tight, and I hate myself because she's purpling with bruises, but she tells me to do it more, and I find that I can't stop. My eyes screw shut, and I try to look away, but behind my lids I still see her feral face. And her nails. Her nails have become exquisite, and my body a shame to me. 

She hates me. She loves me. 

No more.

The last fight, I turned, like a coward, and ran. For the fire escape, if you can believe it. I tore down and ran through the streets, turned and hid, in an overnight car park. So shaken I couldn't even use magic to flee. I walked into the gap between two cars, and dropped, covered my face with my hands. I'm a Mountie. More than that, an Auror. How the hell did I let it come to this?

When I returned home, she wasn't there. This was last night. She hasn't returned.

Work is a strain. I can see that my colleagues know that something is wrong, but the uniform covers a multitude of sins, a multitude of scars. She's careful. She keeps it quiet, and she keeps it hidden. Perhaps she has had experience of this. Done it to others. Had it done to her. I watch her when she's sleeping sometimes, and her face is so soft, so like a child's. I wish I could kiss all the pain out of her, but I'm afraid that it's too late.

And yes, I'm trying to concentrate on work again, trying and failing, and thinking of her.

What happened to Ray drove all that from my mind. For the first time since she left something other than her grabs all my attention, and I'm finally furious, furious that anyone would do this to my friend. To his Stella. To my Ray.

Clean up, clean up is a mess. I realise, but distantly, as though it is a matter of no import, that I'm being gradually edged out, gradually excluded. I feel as though Ray Vecchio no longer quite trusts me, and that should hurt, but it doesn't.

What hurts is what they did to Ray. Kowalski. (My Kowalski.)

They don't know what to do with him, a rogue wizard with no knowledge of his power. And I leap at it, the chance to take him home, to protect him, to keep him from harm. I have an empty bed, and for a strange instant it's in my head that he's the only one to fill it.

I bury the thought, and insist. And I see them confer, with glances that they think I do not see, and I see them realise that, while I might not be good enough for the inner circle, I can be trusted to babysit Ray.

My Ray.

I take him home, and sit by the bed, and just look at him. And it hurts. Not like she does. A holy hurt. 

When he wakes up, he's confused, as well he should be, and it's all I can do to contain him. He's crying in my arms, and says, “I should be with her.” And oh God, I know just what he means. 

“You can't be, Ray,” I say, and I'm bleeding for him. “Not now, not tomorrow, likely not for a long time. Not if you wish her to remain safe.”

By the time I've made him understand, with that fabricated story of people he's arrested taking a hit out on him, he's calmed down, isn't crying any more. I know the story is a lie, but there's no truth that I can tell him. I can't tell him that he's a magical focal point, that if Stella stands near him she'll likely get sucked up into some storm. All I can do is tell him something he'll understand. That she'll understand. Destroy his relationship, so that at least she will survive.

His face, as I tell him, is a broken mirror. I could cut myself on its glass. 

Oh, Ray.

When finally he's recovered enough to return to his apartment, and he's so brave a man, not to be frightened from his home, I realise, all of a sudden, that the emptiness I miss around me now is not Victoria, but him.

But just as I come to realise that, she returns. 

She returns, and the whole damned stink of it starts up again.


End file.
